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section7mfu2014-10-26 12:00 pm
"That Voodoo that You Do So Well" for the Writer's Choice~ 7 Days of Halloween
“That Voodoo that you do so well.”
.
“Oh Napoleon it is all superstitious nonsense that preys upon the weak willed and weak minded. It offers them answers to their concerns of family, love, money and happiness as well as their fears...all things that people wish for themselves or to wish away, when in reality they need to work for everything they want. A voodoo priestess is not going to give them these things as they think she will.”
“You have to admit though that there’s a power there somewhere behind it,” Solo answered his partner’s challenge.” and don’t you dare insinuate that I am weak minded.”
“Perish the thought,” Illya teased his friend. “Please, you have to admit that there is trickery, fooling the mind and the eyes into believing what they want to believe? There is no mystical power.” Illya insisted.
“I suppose some of it is, but you know from our past experiences that somethings can’t just be rationalized away.
“I suppose, “ His stubborn partner finally admitted.
The sun began to set as the two U.N.C.L.E. agents strode along the sidewalk towards the necropolis, one of the many Cities of the Dead that dotted New Orleans.They entered through the gate, greeted by rusty ironwork and sun bleached tombs with the dark stains of time running down their walls, some that dated back centuries. They were in various stages of upkeep ranging from brand new to graves crumbling in disrepair.
Crosses, statues on tombstone tops, and angels cast ominous shadows as the light of the day faded the father in they walked. Votive candles dotted some of the graves, a flickering reminder that the dead had living relatives that still cared about them.
The sounds of cicadas seemed to surround them, their high-pitched song coming from the Spanish moss filled trees, its long strands swaying lazily above their heads.. The singing felt comforting and yet hypnotic to the two agents as they passed row upon row of dark mausoleums with their peaked roofs topped with crosses.
The St. Louis Cemetery # 1 near the French Quarter was the oldest burial place in the city, with it’s twisted paths, crumbling corners of tombs that jutted out, and dead ends adding to the sudden feeling of loneliness that sent shivers up and down their spines.
Strangely enough, the walls and monuments of the cemetery served to keep it isolate from the sounds of the city that encompassed it and muffled Napoleon and Illya’s voices while they spoke as if they were entombed themselves.
“This place is really eerie,” Solo whispered, “ with all these above ground mausoleums and crypts pretty much obstructing our view. It feels like something could jump out at us at every turn...say why are all the graves above ground?”
Illya smiled.”That is because the city’s position in relation to sea level makes it hard to bury the dead. The water table here would sometimes make coffins literally float to the surface, so the city fathers opted for these forms of internment instead of seeing the dead float away.”
Napoleon suddenly had visions of coffins sailing down the flooded streets of the city. ”Er, that’s a pleasant thought. No wonder it smells so damp and moldy here.”
“This place is not that bad.” Illya countered, ”Now Russian cemeteries, those are eerie as you say and are so full that there is no room to even walk among the crypts that date back much farther in time than here. There the mouldy stink of death makes this place smell like a rose garden.”
“Oh gee thanks for that olfactory prompt,” Napoleon grimaced at him, as they continued past the burial places of poets, pirates and politicians and other notables as they searched for the tomb of Marie LaVeau, the 18th century Creole voodoo priestess. Illya called a few of them to his partner’s attention; the grave of Etienne de Boré, the first mayor of New Orleans, when they finally reached their destination.
“There it is,” Kuryakin spoke softly as he pointed to a grey mausoleum.
“Illya, why are you whispering?”
That made the surly Russian smile just slightly; there was something about the place just made him feel compelled to do so. Was it respect for the dead, or was it something else?
Illya directed his flashlight ahead; moths drawn to its light as he swatted annoying mosquitoes that buzzed by his ears. Then he spotted what they were looking for, the Glapion family crypt and the burial place of Marie LaVeau.\\
In front of the grey stone mausoleum offerings were scattered, gifts of Hoodoo money, cigarettes, bottles of alcohol, votive candles, Mardi Gras beads and dried herbs. The walls of the crypt were covered with small letters, XXX’s that had been scratched into its surface by supplicants asking favors from the ‘witch of New Orleans.’
An owl hooted, startling the senior agent for a second. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath.
“Honestly Napoleon, I do not understand what is making you so jumpy?” Illya turned, looking at him for a second but before his partner could answer he stumbled, not watching where he was going and tripped on a broken slab of stone that had perhaps broken off from the dog Napoleon’s grave stone.
The Russian tumbled forward onto his hands and knees, sending the flashlight scuttling on the stones in front of him and when he looked up, the beam of light was shining on a long dark skirt covering the legs of someone standing in front of him.
“Who dat, who dat der?” a voice called out.
“Mama Luc, I presume?” Napoleon answered softly from the shadows as he picked up the flashlight, offering his partner a hand up.
“Dat’s me chérie, and you be Napoléon, and who’s dis at mah feet?” The old Creole woman said, reaching out with bottom of her walking stick, smacking Illya in right the head.
“Ow, please do not do that Madam?” he said trying to get himself up and away from the woman.
She was a grizzled creature, with the lines of time etched into her face. Her head was covered with a bright yellow tète en l’air scarf tied up into a number of peaks concealing most of her grey hair, across her shoulders and covering her worn black dress was a crimson shawl. Draped around her neck were long strands of bones and feathers, amulets and talismans, and hanging from a simple cord was her gris-gris bag adorned with a powerful mystical symbol of the ve-ve to protect her and allow her to practice her voodoo rites.
“Chérie, Mama did not mean to hit you, she done see so good any mo, comprendre?”
“Oui ma mere, Je comprends. Je m’appelle Illya.” He told her he understood, then introduced himself as he dusted off his trousers and hands.
“Okay c’est bon chérie, a tout alors, trés bien_that’s good cherie, everything is well then.”
“So Mama Luc, we came here because of a little present that was left at our doorstep,” Napoleon said, as he pulled out a small black box from within his jacket, it looking very much like a coffin and inside it was a little cloth doll made of burlap with crudely stitched cross-hatched eyes and mouth, and Spanish moss for hair. It’s arms and legs bound were bound and a picture of Solo’s face pinned to the head.
“Ah de voodoo doll, oui Napoléon. Somebody not liking you Monsieur. You lucky doh, no body been stickin’ nails in it yet, so you no feelin’ da pain it can cause,” she smiled a half toothless grin at him. “Dis was just de warnin maybe?” She spoke with a heavy accent, a mix of French and Caribbean influences.
“I’m sorry ma Mere, we do not believe in the power of such things.” Illya said.
“Den why you seek me out...oh mon joli garçon, just because you don’t believe don’t mean they not dere, n’est pas? Come we get rid of dis for you, Napoléon, best not to have dis around to be used against you.”
Solo looked quizzical. “I don’t understand Mama Luc, all we had to do was get rid of it?”
"I would not expect you to chèrie, voodoo ways are of the spirit and a mystery. To one such as yourself it is très difficile for a non-believer to understand...but no matter Mama will take care of dis for you. She know how.”
She held the doll up for him to see it again. “Ah you see de hands and feet on it are bound, dat means that you are bound Monsieur. The person who made dis has bound you against doing dem no harm. So if attacked by him, you cannot defend yourself. Comprendre?”
“Oui, Je comprends parfaitement Madam,” Napoleon answered.
“Chèrie, don’t speak de language until you have mastered it enh Napoléon?” Mama Luc said in all seriousness.
Illya stood by, covering his mouth trying not to laugh as his partner flashed him a sour look.
“What? I said nothing,” Illya whispered.
“But you were thinking it.” Napoleon said.
“Alors, and so we begin,” Mama Luc said, “But first...” she held out her hand toward Napoleon.
He looked at her quizzically.” Oh...OH? “ Solo padded down his pockets without success. Tovarisch, would you mind? I seemed to have left my wallet at the hotel.”
“How convenient,” Illya said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. He withdrew his wallet, not happy that he was having to pay for this nonsense... something that he did not believe in, and embarrassingly enough when he opened it a moth flew out. Illya shook his head, sighing as he knew his partner was going to get great mileage out of it.
Illya took out a twenty dollar bill, handing it to the woman but she persisted holding her hand out for more. Illya scowled at his partner, thinking this a waste of money and time as he handed her another twenty.
“Très bien, “ she said, stuffing the money down the bodice of her dress.Mama Luc lifted a worn carpet bag, withdrawing small vials of red and green liquids as well as handfuls of dried herbs. Then out came a cloth bag, one Illya recognized instantly as as a burial bag, used to consolidate the bones of the long dead to make more room for new arrivals in the already overcrowded crypts of New Orleans.
She reached into the bag, carefully removing the bones and setting them in a small circle in front of the altar, then she placed the skull with a black candle atop it into the center of the circle and lit it with a match.
Then she pulled out a small cast iron cauldron, dropping herbs into it, several chicken feet and then the liquid from the vials, this too she lit with a match. The flame burned soft and blue and she began to utter words they didn’t understand, then she threw sulphurous powders into the flame, causing a poof of an explosion filling the air with and acrid smoke smelling like rotten eggs.
“Now chèrie I do a jadoo curse and someting better to take care of de one who has bound you.” Mama Luc held out another voodoo doll, one made of black cloth, “ You got someting dat belong him?”
Napoleon was mesmerized by the whole process, “ Huh? Um, yes I have this.” He held out a handkerchief that the Thrush agent had used to staunch the blood from having been winged by Illya as he ran off, after leaving the the little coffin with the voodoo doll in it at their motel door. He had dropped the bloody cloth as he jumped over a wall, and disappeared into the night.
“Oh good!” Mama Luc smiled, “Blood be powerful magic, good djudju for you.” She took the handkerchief from Solo, tying it around her simply constructed doll, then wrapped an ornate necklace that she produced from within the many folds of her black dress. ”Dis now be a voodoo-mirror doll and dis a curse remover charm. Now we send dat curse back to him and give him someting more enh?” She cackled at them.
The wizened old woman began to chant, turning the doll above the burning cauldron in a trance-like state, as she accessed what she believed to be supernatural forces.
Illya stood by, with his arms crossed in front of himself, bemused by all the mumbo jumbo and seeing nothing to dissuade him of his scepticism. To him it was nothing but smoke and mirrors and he was still in a state of disbelief that a man of Napoleon’s intelligence would fall prey to such charlatanism.
Mams Luc continued to chant in a trembling voice. “I forge dis image, I bewitch it...da malevolent aspect, da evil eye, da malevolent mouth, malevolent tongue, da malevolent lip. Da finest sorcery...Spirits of da heavens, conjure it! Spirits of da earth conjure it! Sousson-Pannan I summon you! Drinker of blood and l’acool.”
“Do not move Messieurs, lest the he decides to taste your blood.” Mama Luc hissed at them.
An ethereal mist suddenly formed around her changing from white to red, then it took a more visible shape as a bizarre creature. It looked human, but had an elongated neck, with the face of a skeleton. On its head was a weather-worn top hat. It drifted forward, moving towards the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, enveloping them in it’s mist, but leaving them unharmed. It then floated slowly past them, to enshroudi the sides of Marie Le Veau’s crypt, continuing on behind it.
“What is that?” Napoleon whispered out the side of his mouth, keeping his body frozen in place.
“I believe Sousson-Pannan is a loa, supposedly one of the demon-spirits of the voodoo religion.” Illya answered, trying not to move. He didn’t know what to make of this apparition, and decided to remain motionless just to be on the safe side.
Mama Luc let out a long moan, and tossed the black voodoo doll into the flames.
A blood curdling scream came from behind the Glapion family crypt, making the agents draw their Walthers instantly, aiming them in itdirection.
A man staggered out towards them, enveloped by the misting creature; his hands running all over his body as if he were on fire, and trying to put out the flames. He fell to the ground at their feet and then they realized it was the Thrush agent that Illya had wounded.
A bottle of whiskey flew past them, shattering on the grave slab of Marie LaVeau sunken into the ground in front of the crypt. The red mist followed the whiskey as it seeped into the earth, disappearing after it.
Suddenly there was a shrieking cackle, and they turned to face it. Mama Luc was gone along with all her accoutrements. Her laughter fading in the distance.
Illya knelt beside the man, checking for a pulse and raised his eyebrows when he realized the body was completely exsanguinated...drained of blood. “Interesting?” he commented as he rose.
“Interesting. That’s all you have to say? Now do you believe in this stuff tovarisch, there is something to this voodoo thing after all.” Napoleon smiled.
“I am a pragmatist, and therefore reserve my judgement until all the facts are in,” Illya answered with an emotionless voice.
Napoleon pulled his communicator, “Open channel D- we need a cleanup in aisle six at the St. Louis cemetery near the French Quarter,” Solo out. “Gee I wonder if we could get Mama Luc to come work for U.N.C.L.E.?” Solo mused as they began their return trek through the darkened cemetery.
“And do not forget, you still owe me forty dollars.” Illya wagged his finger at his partner.”
“Hmm, maybe I’ll get a doll for myself to use...a blond one this time?”
“Napoleon!”
la fin...mes chers
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Excellent story. Illya isn't going to hear the end of the whole moth thing.
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Thanks for commenting!
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Just goes to show you, you can't please all of the people all of the time. As you well know.
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